Page 117 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
"What, you mean for spotting the fact that there was something between the two of you before you realized it, and ensuring that she turned up at your doorstep?"
"I’ll never forgive you for that," I growl.
"You’re welcome." He nods.
"Oh, fuck off." I drag a finger under my collar. Shit, maybe the button-down was a bad idea. Why the hell hadn’t I opted for my normal T-shirt and jeans?
"Don’t even think about it." Arpad grabs the bottle of whiskey from the table, along with two glasses, then walks over. He hands me a glass, pours some of the amber liquid into it.
I sniff it. "Macallan’s," I nod. Can’t fault the man for his taste in whiskey, at least. I take a healthy swig, and the taste of oak fills my senses.
"Limited-edition," he adds. "Had a pal save one for me."
"No doubt." I toss back the rest of the contents, hold out my glass for more. He fills me up and I down that too. "More," I mumble. "Top me up."
"Easy, tiger," he cautions, "you don’t want to be drunk for your wedding now."
"Don’t I?" I mumble. "She blackmailed me into this."
"Did she?"
"It was either marry her or lose her."
"And you didn’t want to let go of her?"
I stare at the contents of the glass; the amber sparkles under the watery sunlight. "Wonder if it will rain?" I glance up at the overcast sky.
"Now you’re deflecting." Arpad shakes his head, "And PS, I thought you had more balls than this."
"What are you talking about?"
"No one’s ever coerced you into doing anything you didn’t want to do."
"Except the women in my life, huh?"
"Riley," he says softly.
I shoot him a glance, "Be very careful what you say next."
He leans forward on the balls of his feet. "I’ve never been a father. God knows, I can only imagine how it felt for you to have known her for such a little while, only to lose her, but you need to let go of her, bro."
"Don’t talk about her as if she’s—" My throat closes and a burning sensation fills the back of my eyes. Shit, what is this? Will I ever reach a stage when I’ll be able to think about her without my heart breaking, without my stomach twisting itself up in knots, without every part of me insisting that I was in the wrong?
"She’s gone, bro," Arpad says softly. "She’s not coming back."
"Don’t you fucking think that I know that?" My voice cracks, and I squeeze my fingers around the glass of whiskey. "If only I could turn back the clock... If only I’d taken the threats more seriously... If only I’d taken steps to protect them."
"It wasn’t your fault."
"Of course, it was," I snap. "I was too focused on my next album, my career, my image. It was always the next thing. I didn’t appreciate what I had in front of me—my daughter, my angel, the light of my life." I squeeze my eyes shut. "It’s my fucking fault that she’s dead."
I’ve said it… the dreaded ‘D’ word that I’ve never been able to enunciate before. "She’s not with me anymore," I choke out the words. "I’ll never be able to hold her again, smell that baby scent of hers, or teach her to ride a bike. Or whip her first boyfriend when he comes to pick her up on her first date. Fuck!" I fling the glass and it shatters against the floor. "Bloody fuck, what the hell am I doing here anyway? I should be home, working on my album, taking care of—"
I draw in a breath. I have to stop talking about her as if she is still here… My logical mind knows it. My brain insists on it…. But my heart… My soul… All of it, refuses to accept the irrefutable proof of what I face every day. My daughter, my child, my little girl, will never smile again, will never look at me, or call me Daddy, will never ask me for her favorite toy, or ask me to read to her again.
"Fuck." I drag my fingers through my hair. "This marriage. It’s all wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this."
"It’s the one thing you should definitely see through," Arpad admonishes me.
